


(We're So) Late Nights

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF, Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Tyler Posey, California, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: Tyler keeps trying to remind himself that his summer crush on Zayn is just a summer crush. It'll go away once Zayn does. There's no reason for Tyler to keep pining like an idiot. Right? Right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. Tiff posted [this awesome manip](http://poseysfingers.tumblr.com/post/152364698322/%E3%83%84) and I was like _oh I'll write something small!_ and absolutely did not write anything small. Anyway. Here's almost 13k of PARTYING and PINING. Enjoy.
> 
> Thanks Kat, for the beta! <3

Tyler loves SoCal for the way summer’s dragged kicking and screaming into fall. The way the bushy leaves cling to the trees by the highway and stubbornly refuse to change, refuse to drop or die. The way the sun holds out, no clouds in sight for days and days despite the inevitable march towards a season of hoodies and close-toed shoes and beanies. 

This week is a pocket of warmth despite the slowly declining temperatures. A last battle cry that can’t be ignored. Tyler’s been by the ocean for a couple of days now, skateboarding barefoot back and forth between the summer beach houses that belong to his friends’ parents. 

Sometimes when he’s really stoned and thinking too much, he likes to think about the fact that he’s really just playing a part -- despite the nights spent couch surfing and wearing the same shirt for days in a row, Tyler’s parents make six figures. Their house is inland, he’s got a room and a decent amount of tech and a car that he could drive around. He just doesn’t. 

He likes being semi-homeless better, likes letting his hair and his beard grow out, likes getting stick-and-poke tattoos from strangers in the well-lit basements that double as game rooms, juice and expensive vodka in his cup. He likes getting kicked out of record stores for being drunk at two in the afternoon with all his friends.

He knows he’s lucky. Lucky to have grown up in a nice neighborhood and gone to a private school. Lucky to have met all his rich kid friends -- the ones who became models, or actors, or Instagram famous. Lucky that his pilot got picked up by the CW, riding the high of his first _real_ acting job. Lucky he gets to spend the summer celebrating until they start filming in November, nothing else to do between now and then --

He doesn’t ever want to come down from this -- how young and wild and free he feels, has _felt_ the past couple of months. 

Tourist season is winding down. All the chaos is coming to a skidding halt. This is when everything gets more frantic. The bonfires get bigger, the parties get louder. Like they’re trying to fit in as much adventure as they possibly can in these last, dying days of summer.

Weeks have passed in a blur of rotating whiskey bottles, trading joints for cigarettes, and holding court at the local Denny’s -- 2AM, trashed, falling over giggling -- 

And now, sitting in front of the ocean, watching the tendrils of daylight creep across the sky from behind him, golden fingers reaching out towards the horizon. The sand dune he’s on overlooks the O’Brien’s private beach, pitched tents and half-naked bodies fast asleep on towels littering the ground. The fire pit is still smoking. Beer cans and bottles and red cups litter the beach like bullet shells on Normandy -- Tyler has no fucking idea why his brain made that analogy --

Party favors from the night before are keeping him up, but he likes being philosophical about it, likes to think that he’s trying to preserve the feeling humming in his chest -- the dying embers of a carefree season.

There’s a breeze creeping in off the ocean, cold enough to make Tyler wish he had more on than just a pair of swimming trunks. He pulls his guitar in closer like it will shield him from the wind and tries to write a song about early adulthood and wasted days. It all comes out as shit, but that’s what punk rock is all about, isn’t it?

“Spot taken?” asks a low voice, and Tyler recognizes Zayn’s thick accent, the rounded edges of his vowels. 

A familiar shiver tip-toes up Tyler’s spine -- that summer crush feeling that he hasn’t been able to fucking shake. Zayn’s too pretty for his own good, and Tyler looks at his dumb face and feels full of possibility. 

The first time they met was a clear night in June. Tyler and Dylan were sitting in the sand with Harry, passing around a bottle of whiskey and a 2 liter of Coke to chase. Harry was telling them something about London, voice so slow and rambling Tyler wasn’t actually following. Instead, he was watching Danielle come up the beach with two people in tow, stumbling over the heavy sand. 

Ridiculously, Tyler’s first real thought was that he and Zayn both had their nostrils pierced -- Zayn just had the left side done and Tyler had the right, but they were both wearing hoops, and that connected them on some weird level.

His second thought was a process, like -- Tyler didn’t know if he was too drunk, or if the light the bonfire threw over Zayn’s face was perfectly placed, or if Zayn really was the most attractive person he’d ever seen in his fucking _life_ \-- all long limbs and broad shoulders and white-blonde undercut. 

Tyler’s brain pretty much went offline when Zayn spoke for the first time, voice rough and warm and full-bodied like maple syrup or aged brandy -- more metaphors that didn’t make sense then (and don’t make sense now that he’s thinking about it). 

Turned out it wasn’t the alcohol, or a trick of the light. The next day, Zayn was actually _more_ gorgeous -- skin golden and tattooed, hair a wind-swept mess, mahogany eyes bigger than Dylan’s, blinking up at him when Tyler reintroduced himself in Danielle’s kitchen. 

They shook hands, their eyes locked, and Tyler accepted his fate as a total fucking goner.

“‘Course not,” Tyler says, scootching over like he has to make room for Zayn. When he looks back, Zayn’s smiling at him, Louis’ ratty guitar in his hand. Tyler tries not to look at his chest, or the smooth cut of his hips, the permanent bruise of the black heart inked into his skin, but Zayn’s shirtless and Tyler’s weak --

There’s a pair of aviators hiding Zayn’s eyes, so Tyler doesn’t know if Zayn notices the way Tyler’s looking at him. Either way, he doesn’t say anything, just sits close to Tyler -- not close enough that the bodies of their guitars hit, but close enough that their knees could press up against each other if they shift too much. Tyler’s hands feel clammy on the neck of his guitar all of a sudden, heart jumping. 

“Do you ever sleep, mate?” Zayn asks, smile at the corners of his mouth. Tyler can’t keep himself from grinning in amusement, brushing him off. 

“And waste all this?” Tyler asks, gesturing towards the lit up beach, brightening with morning. There will be too much light soon, the people crashed on the sand waking up and wandering into a tent or indoors. Right now, it’s still peaceful and quiet, a nice contrast to the whirlwind of Tyler’s mind.

“I’d be sleeping right now, if I were you,” Zayn says, settling the guitar into the cradle of his lap before pulling a cigarette out from behind his ear and tipping his chin at the lighter that’s sitting next to Tyler on the ground. 

Tyler passes it over -- watches the way Zayn’s cheeks hollow when he takes his first drag, watches the way his mouth rounds when he exhales. Definitely doesn’t miss the eyebrow Zayn cocks at him like a question. 

Tyler shrugs and strums a few chords, looking over the ocean again. The surface is green-blue like polished stone and eerily calm. 

“Nah, too up,” Tyler says. “Besides, you’re one to talk.” 

It’s pretty obvious that Zayn hasn’t slept yet, still sharp around the edges instead of soft and smudged like he gets after he’s slept a decent amount of time. They’ve spent enough hungover mornings in each other’s company that Tyler knows how he looks when he wakes up -- grumpy in the middle of the afternoon, white hair fluffed up like a duck’s tail, pout on his pretty face. It’s a sight Tyler likes a lot.

“Too up,” Zayn echoes, with a sideways smile. The cigarette dangles at the corner of his mouth, bottom lip clinging to the filter. It wiggles as he talks, dropping snowy ash onto the curve of the guitar’s body. 

Tyler makes an ‘ah’ noise of acknowledgement -- same, same. Zayn shrugs again, shoulders bouncing, cigarette jostling. Tyler grins and copies him, wiggling his eyebrows. They bounce their shoulders at each other ridiculously before Tyler feels the belated embarrassment. 

His fingers launch into a Sublime song as a distraction. Zayn laughs loudly, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, and Tyler wonders if he’ll ever stop wanting to kiss him --

“What are we doing today?” Zayn asks, low and dragging, and Tyler doesn’t think he cares about the actual answer, but Tyler says it anyway, a total cliche, laughter in his voice.

“Whatever we want, dude.”

 

 

The sky's deep navy blue, stars dim pinpricks in the distance, veiled by the persistent pollution that blankets the city, so much worse in summer. Tyler reaches his arm out towards them, watches the tendons in the back of his hand flex as he moves it in slow patterns, weaving in and out of the stars, blocking the light and letting it shine again. The rise and fall of his chest is heavy, but elation balloons in his chest. 

When he realizes what he’s doing, his hand drops onto his chest, turning his head to look at Zayn sprawled out on the grass next to him. Hair clings wetly to Zayn’s forehead, flattened out, slate grey like this, chrome in the street lights. Tyler has the urge to push it back, to run his fingers through Zayn’s hair, grab him by the back of his head, and press their mouths together, taste the subtleness of his smile. 

It probably tastes like whatever they smoked earlier and the red slurpee Zayn finished a bit ago, before they got to this lawn and decided to run through the sprinklers.

“You’re staring,” Zayn says. His eyelids are hooded, watching Tyler curiously. The water on his skin is making him shiny, highlighting the steep rise of his cheekbones. There are probably droplets clinging to his ridiculous lashes like fairy kisses. 

The grass squelches wetly underneath Tyler as he rolls onto his side, far too aware of the heaviness of his soaked clothes, the way his skin is cooling, ocean breeze making him break out in goosebumps.

In the distance, Tyler hears the rest of the sprinklers shudder and stop. 

“You’re pretty, dude,” Tyler replies, easily.

On his other side, Sprayberry bursts out laughing. Tyler rolls around to flip him off. 

“Pretty sure that’s why he’s a model,” Dylan says, sitting up on Sprayberry’s other side. He plucks at his shirt where it’s plastered to his chest; it falls back with an audible _thud_. Water flies everywhere when he scrubs his hand through the wet mess of his hair. 

Harry sits up in Zayn’s left and watches them curiously.

“Zayn?” he asks, slowly, blinking. If Tyler didn’t know Harry was pretty much always stoned, he’d assume it really does take Harry full minutes to process things. But his brain is just off contemplating the wonders of the universe or some shit, obviously not listening.

“What?” Zayn asks, turning towards him. Harry frowns deeply. 

“Not you,” he chides. “They were talking about you.”

“Then, yeah me,” Zayn says, with a little hiccup of a laugh like he’s trying not to be loud about it. 

Harry’s frown gets deeper, he shakes his head slowly.

“ _Yes_ , that’s why Zayn’s a model,” Dylan says, patiently, throwing grass in Harry’s direction. It lands in a wet clump on Sprayberry’s chest. Everyone ignores the offended noise he makes. 

“Because he’s pretty?” Harry says, getting it, aiming a wide smile at Zayn. 

“Because I’m pretty,” Zayn says, looking back at Tyler to smirk at him. 

Tyler makes a big show of rolling his eyes so he doesn’t stare at Zayn soulfully in an attempt to convey how much he wants to suck Zayn’s dick. 

It’s becoming a problem. 

The end of summer is approaching too quickly. Tyler feels opportunity slipping through his fingers like it’s a physical thing. He wants to hold onto it, pull it back. Wants all of them to remain in an endless loop of nights like this, fucked up and feeling free, high on happiness and everything else there is to be high on. 

Tyler wants all the quiet moments, wants to preserve them and keep them in jam jars so he can take them out and look at them later. 

He wants Zayn watching him like this, curious and soft and wondering. Still wants to kiss him, of course, but Tyler can’t find the right opportunity to corner Zayn the right way, always surrounded by his asshole best friends. So he hasn’t, wastes time in ways he can’t afford to. 

Next to him, Dylan and Sprayberry are in stitches, giggling madly. Unfortunately, they’re all stoned and it’s contagious, infecting Tyler and Harry and Zayn in the next instant, until they’re all falling back into the grass, holding their sides as they laugh, noise rolling into the night like a summer storm. 

It takes a long time to calm down. By then, Tyler’s sides hurt, tears in the corners of his eyes. When he manages to catch his breath, he’s facing Zayn again. Zayn’s watching him with a smile on his lips, secrets tucked into the corners of his mouth. 

Tyler wants to taste them. Wants to kiss him until their lips are numb and buzzing like the inside of Tyler’s head. He wants, he wants, he wants...

“You’re _staring_ ,” Harry says, loudly. 

The other two burst out laughing again, a joke that they’re all in on, and Zayn smiles. The slow smile that takes over his face, makes his eyes crinkle up, tongue emerging. The happy, dorky smile that makes Tyler’s chest feel squiggly and strange. 

“I’m too stoned for this shit,” Tyler complains, feeling ganged up on even though he knows he’s being obvious. The want he’s feeling is probably written all over his face, and if he were brave, he’d roll on top of Zayn and kiss him right here in the face of their friends and the stars and whoever’s two story beach house is looking down on them as they lie on the freshly watered lawn. 

He’s not brave though, so he sticks his tongue out at Harry and rolls to his feet instead.

Once he’s upright he takes a minute to let the world spin, lights popping behind his eyes from the headrush. When he blinks and focuses, everyone else is standing too. With some effort, Tyler strips off his shirt and slings it over his shoulders. Water slides down his back and chest, making him uncomfortably chilly. Some of his high is whisked away, sharpening him up. 

Their skateboards are piled at the curb. Dylan gets there first and hands them out, tossing Tyler’s at his chest. Tyler doesn’t bother waiting, eager to get dry and warm, just throws the board down and takes off, the sound the others behind him reassuring him that they’re following quickly enough. 

Dylan coasts next to him and does something complicated with his eyebrows that Tyler interprets as something along the lines of ‘ _you’re hopeless_ ’ and ‘ _fucking make a move already_ ’. Tyler grins and flips him off, feels it in his chest when Dylan cackles at him in response, like he knows that he’s right. 

The trip to the house the Tomlinsons have rented is quick enough, the wheels of their skateboards thundering loudly down the narrow lane behind the rentals. It’s too late for this, or too early, well past midnight. The canyon between the brightly colored beach houses echoes their laughter and shouts; a hurricane of noisy assholes rolling through.

Tyler feels the buzzing under his skin as they ride right up the Tomlinsons’ door. The skateboards end up in a pile on the door mat, wood clattering together. The low bass from the stereo greets them when they get the door open, air in the house murky, thick with smoke and the musky scent of weed. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler sees both Dylans perk up like bloodhounds, elbows finding each other’s sides. The smoke isn’t unexpected, considering it’s Louis’ house, but they’re excited just the same, eyeing the sofa in the low light to see if they can find the source. 

Sure enough, Louis’ tucked into the corner of the couch, a purple zong cradled in his lap like something beyond precious. 

He wrinkles his nose at the group of them when he gets a look at the state they’re in. The ride over did absolutely nothing to dry them off, water dripping from Tyler’s shorts onto the carpet of the living room. 

Oops. 

“Fuckin’ get dry,” Louis orders, waving them off. “There’s extra clothes and shit in my room, towels in the hall.”

“Thanks Lou!” Harry shouts, bounding up the stairs. They all follow at a slower pace. Tyler takes up the rear, lets everyone else go ahead of him. There’s a change of clothes in his bag, so all he needs is a towel, and he’s the first to get the bathroom. 

Tyler strips, throwing his wet shit into the bottom of the tub, too lazy to hang it up to dry. His briefs are barely up his hips when the doorknob clicks and turns. Tyler hastily tugs them up the rest of the way, reaching for his shirt. 

Zayn freezes in the doorway, eyes wide. 

“Shit, sorry,” Zayn says, but he doesn’t make a move to back out of the bathroom, just watches as Tyler shrugs into his shirt, catching the wet mess of his hair and getting the collar damp. 

The cotton sticks to his skin uncomfortably as he tugs it down, skin still not all the way dry. Tyler supposes he could have finished toweling off, but his instinct was to preserve his modesty for some weird ass reason. 

“All good, bro,” Tyler says, shrugging, even though he can feel the heat under his skin as Zayn keeps looking at him. He tugs his cut-offs out of his bag and hops into them, pulling them up his hips, trying to appear unaffected even though he feels too-warm under Zayn’s scrutiny.

He regrets how fucking tight they are as he sticks his hands down the front to smooth out his underwear, trying to subtly shift his dick so it’s not obnoxiously bulging. Zayn hasn’t stopped looking at him. And while Tyler’s sure he can relate to the art of putting on skinnies, Tyler doesn’t know how he feels about being watched while handling his soft dick. 

(Who’s he kidding, it’s Zayn. He likes it.)

“All yours,” Tyler says, finally looking up as he zips up his backpack. Zayn’s shirtless, hip leaning against the counter. He still hasn’t bothered to look away. The air between them feels tight, like they’re teetering on the edge of the decision Tyler hasn’t been able to make. 

Tyler takes a moment to mentally acknowledge that now would be a good time to make a move. He could press Zayn back against the counter and get his hands around Zayn’s hips and kiss him, soft and quiet, with no interruptions.

But, Tyler doesn’t. He doesn’t know _why_ he doesn’t, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he moves past Zayn, careful not to touch him, and slips into the hall, closing the door behind him. All his breath leaves him in a rush, head spinning with the tension he left behind.

“Awkward,” Harry sing-songs, right next to the fucking door, back to the wall. Tyler jumps in surprise and cusses him out while Harry cackles hard enough to make Sprayberry yell from the bedroom to ask why the fuck he’s screaming. 

“You’re dead to me, Styles,” Tyler growls. 

He’s got a shirtless Harry in a headlock when Zayn opens the bathroom, stopping in the doorway to watch them with a bemused look. Dylan takes the opportunity to slip past them and shove Zayn into the hall before shutting the door. 

“It was supposed to be my turn!” Harry bitches, trying to fight Tyler off. He’s scrawnier than Tyler though, so he’s entirely unsuccessful.

Zayn leaves them in the hallway, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Tyler waits until he’s down the stairs to let Harry go, wiggling a finger at him in warning.

“You’re a dick,” Harry says, pushing his hair off his face. There’s a wide grin on his face -- one that suggests he knows something that Tyler doesn’t. Tyler’s pretty sure they know the same thing, and that face is redundant, but he doesn’t mention that to Harry. 

“I try,” Tyler says, chucking his used towel at Harry’s head. Harry throws it back and blinds Tyler, pushing him into the wall before scampering into the bathroom as Dylan opens the door. Tyler tries to chuck the towel at Harry again, but the door shuts. It makes contact with a heavy smack, and falls to the floor. 

Dylan looks at it, confused.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tyler says. He doesn’t bother waiting for Harry, just slings his arm over Dylan’s shoulders and tugs him downstairs to rejoin everyone else in the living room, Sprayberry in tow.

Tyler’s eyes search out Zayn automatically -- he’s next to Louis with his feet pulled under him, leaning against Louis’ side. Tyler watches them for a minute, the way Zayn relaxes into Louis, smile on his face. 

Tyler wishes he could be that easy with Zayn. Touch him like anyone else would. Sling an arm around his shoulders, tug him in close. Even sitting near him, thighs pressed together. Things he would normally do with any of the others. 

It’s too hard to do with Zayn. Tyler can feel the intent behind any and every touch. Like Zayn will know just how much Tyler wants him if Tyler ends up sitting too close, or looking for too long, or talking too much. 

So he tries to avoid that, tries not to be obvious. He knows he’s mostly failed, considered how the others were giving him shit earlier, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

The kitchen feels like a long walk, but Tyler forces himself to take it, to get away from the heaviness of the air in the living room. He wants to throw himself on the couch next to Zayn, wants to press their sides together until they’re falling against Louis like dominos. He wants to _make_ Zayn pay attention to him, and that’s -- well, not exactly weird, considering how much Tyler likes attention, but _obvious_. 

Tyler’s trying to not be obvious.

“You’re so sprung, dude,” Dylan says while Tyler’s mixing up some Jack and Coke and trying not to pine too hard. Tyler chokes on air. 

“Thanks, appreciated,” Tyler says, blinking away the surprise. Dylan grins at him, not as sympathetic as Tyler thinks he should be.

“Why don’t you just fucking say something?” Dylan asks, leaning his hip against the counter, effectively boxing Tyler in. Forcing him to have this conversation, really. 

Tyler laughs and pours out shots for them. Might as well. 

“Dude, he’s like, from London,” Tyler says, waving away Dylan’s question with a loose wrist. He’s not wrong, but -- “He’s leaving in two weeks with the rest of them.”

“So?” Dylan asks, arching an eyebrow in Tyler’s direction. “Are you trying to get in his pants, or date him?” 

“Dude, don’t ask it like that,” Tyler says, wrinkling his nose. “If it was a hook up, we would have hooked up already, right?”

“Oh my god, you _like him_ -like him,” Dylan realizes, eyes going wide. Tyler laughs at him, snorting a little from the force of it. It’s _funny_ , really.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Fuck you, Watson,” Dylan replies, but he’s grinning, all dumb and goofy. Dylan’s a sucker for that kind of shit, the big sap. When Tyler shrugs, he sing-songs, “you _like_ him, you want to _kiss_ him.”

“Shut up,” Tyler says, unable to help his smile as he pushes at Dylan’s shoulder ineffectively. He doesn’t deny it. The feeling he gets when he looks at Zayn is all lightheaded and weird, makes him feel like climbing a roof and howling at the moon. He stopped denying it awhile ago. 

“Well, shit,” Dylan says. It sounds like _shee-it_. 

“Yeah, shit,” Tyler agrees, hitting his shot glass against Dylan’s before he downs it. The high from earlier has worn off, making his thoughts sober in more ways than one. It’s better to be drunk for this kind of thing. Cross faded, even, Tyler thinks, as he and Dylan head back to the living room to sit in the circle with everyone else.

He sits on the floor next to the armchair Harry’s in, and keeps away from Zayn the rest of the night. So he’s not obvious, Tyler tells himself. He’s preserving his own sanity, really.

 

 

It’s been way too easy to lose track of days. The hours blend together -- lounging around stoned in someone’s game room and day drinking on the beach and making 3AM runs to Taco Bell to get enough burritos to feed a small army. 

Sobriety is rare. There are points in time where Tyler doesn’t know who’s stash it is, or who bought the drinks, or anything of the sort. It’s all rolling together in his mind, snapshots of memories all hazy around the edges.

There’s always people floating in and out, that’s how it goes with summers like this. Meeting people for the first time through whoever he’s with -- one night of being fucked up together and they’re comrades for life, bonded over barely stomached shots and bad reefer. People he was with last summer, meeting again on the beaches of their timeshares, red cup in hand. 

Usually Tyler sticks with Dylan and Sprayberry and that’s it, moving between parties and people’s houses, but never sticking around for long. Usually it’s days before he sees the same people twice, because he’s always moving, always doing something, but --

This summer is different. Somehow the three of them became them plus Louis and Zayn, and the groups of people constantly around _them_ , until there’s a whole group of people to keep tabs on and text when they’re going places. It means more parties to go to, more things to do, more people to see. 

It feels good, making memories with so many people, preserving this feeling with other people -- like the summer is truly endless, like they could do all this forever -- evening rides down the coast with Dylan and Cody. Showing Harry and all his weird, pretentious hipster friends the arcade. Getting papped at the movies with Sprayberry and Khylin. Making Shelley and Holland come down from LA to get fucked up with them. 

And it feels like everywhere he turns, Zayn is there. Especially in all the quiet moments, the moments in between, where Tyler finds Zayn and the frantic thrum of the summer slows down until it’s just them. Tyler doesn’t know what it means that they’re some of his favorite memories so far.

Underneath it all is the persistent feeling of wanting to kiss Zayn all the fucking time. The magnetism that Tyler can’t seem to escape, drawing him to Zayn at every chance. Looking for Zayn when he walks into a room. Wondering where Zayn is at any time of the day. Wondering when they’re going to meet up, if Zayn will be at the beach or the club or whoever’s house they’re going to next. 

Sitting next to Zayn on the pier in the dying light of the sun, watching the smoke curl out from his lips, shadows making his cheekbones and jaw sharp, but his eyes soft and wonderful. Letting their fingers brush as they pass a spliff back and forth, coming up with shit to talk about that doesn’t make it sound like Tyler’s trying too hard to be interesting. 

And Zayn lying on the patio table at Danielle’s parent’s place, singing along to the Spotify playlist on Cody’s phone. Some old R&B that Tyler knows the melody to, but not the lyrics. Voice quiet, but smooth like milk chocolate, sinking into Tyler’s bones and making him flush warmly. 

Catching each other’s eyes, and Tyler’s just drunk enough to keep staring, crooked smile on his face. When Zayn smiles back, it feels like Tyler accomplished something, and that feeling stays in his chest when he leaves for the club with Dylan and Louis later. 

And chasing after Zayn when he steals Tyler’s skateboard, skinny legs kick-pushing away from Tyler with a laugh louder than Tyler’s ever fucking heard. Soles of Tyler’s shoes hitting the pavement hard as he chases after him. 

The way their bodies collide when Tyler catches up and throws them into the grass next to the sidewalk, pinning Zayn underneath him, wrists trapped under Tyler’s hands before Tyler rolls away and retrieves his board, breath coming too fast, unable to meet Zayn’s eyes until way later, when Tyler’s tired and worn down around the edges. 

Zayn passing him a red solo cup like a peace offering, making Tyler laugh, and Zayn looking delighted -- like that’s all he wanted.

And the light of the bonfire making Zayn glow warmly, hair tousled by the wind. The shadows dark and liquid in the dip of his collar, shoulders broad and biteable, soft part of his stomach begging to be touched. Salt heavy in the air.Tyler wonders if he’d taste it on Zayn’s skin if he pressed his tongue to Zayn’s neck. His pulse point. 

Tyler can’t make himself look away, stuck on the way Zayn’s hands move when he talks, long fingers and square palms. Stuck on the way Zayn’s mouth bows in the middle when he smiles, reminding Tyler of a heart as he grins big, nose crinkling. 

Tyler’s staring, definitely, but he likes the way Zayn looks, wants to look at him for a long time. 

It takes forever to realize that Zayn’s watching, eyes firmly on Tyler’s face when he finally manages to drag his gaze from the kiss tattooed at the center of Zayn’s chest. Tyler flushes, wondering if it’s obvious that he was thinking about pressing his mouth there, then decides he doesn’t care. 

They stare at each other for a minute longer before Zayn looks elsewhere, eyes flicking back just once before jumping away again. There’s a smile pressing at the corner of his mouth, and Tyler’s pretty sure that means something.

And Tyler waking up on the couch at the O’Briens’, arm dangling over the edge with Zayn asleep on the floor next to him. Their hands are close. Tyler could stretch out his arm and tangle their fingers together, but he doesn’t. He looks away and doesn’t think about the pink of Zayn’s cheeks, or the way his bottom lip pouts while he’s sleeping. 

He doesn’t think about the way Zayn had watched him settle into the couch last night, and chose to lie down next to it. The way he had ducked his smile into the jacket he had balled up under his head to use as a pillow, and spoke softly, drunkenly slurring a, “goodnight, Tyler.” 

He absolutely doesn’t think about how Zayn’s leaving in a handful of days. 

 

 

“This is becoming a problem,” Shelley says, pinching the end of the joint between her thumb and forefinger. Instead of elaborating, she takes a hit, making Tyler wait. Smoke curls from her mouth lazily, and Tyler looks away, to where everyone's playing volleyball just a few feet from them. 

Cody, Dylan, and Harry against Sprayberry, Louis, and Zayn. Both Dylans and Cody have the advantage of being naturally athletic, and Louis is competitive enough to pull through, but the other two are dead weight. Well, Harry’s trying, but Zayn’s just watching the ball strike the sand next to him with disinterest.

It’s warm again today, but just barely. The day is drifting between cloudy and sunny the way the beach does, clouds slow-crawling across the sky. The horizon is smudged in the distance, going grey, reminding Tyler that the summer is coming to an end, like the final chapter of a good book. 

Tyler wants to stick a bookmark in it, so he doesn’t ever have to finish.

There’s a lull in the game as Sprayberry chases the ball across the sand, and Tyler looks away before Zayn can catch him staring.

“What is?” he asks, after Shelley hasn’t said anything for a few long moments and he’s managed to focus back on her. Her hair’s growing back out into the lion’s mane that it was before she chopped it off. It reminds him of when he met her years ago, and wonders if he’ll stop being nostalgic any time soon. 

“What’s what?” she asks, passing the joint. Tyler wrinkles his nose at her and takes it. 

“What’s becoming a problem?”

“Oh,” she says, snapping her fingers at him. “Zayn.”

“Zayn’s becoming a problem?” Tyler asks. 

It’s a rhetorical question. He knows Zayn’s becoming a problem, but he still hasn’t _done_ anything about it. It’s gotten so bad, he has half a fucking mind to drag Zayn into the nearest bathroom and suck him off just to get rid of the tension.

Something he probably should have done, like, a month or two ago.

“It’s _been_ a problem,” Shelley says, wiggling her finger at him. A gesture that means absolutely _nothing_ , but somehow lets him know that she’s definitely making fun of him. 

Tyler makes a noncommittal noise at that, puffing on the joint. They both know it’s true, why bother commenting. Under her breath, Shelley starts humming _Crazy In Love_. Tyler dumps sand on her lap until she shrieks at him to stop. 

It doesn’t take Zayn long to wander over, obviously given up on the game. The sun’s out again, making him glow around the edges, catching in his hair -- more silver than yesterday, since he toned it in Louis’ kitchen sink. He’s all lit up as he drops down next to Tyler and stretches his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed.

The rise and fall of his chest is sharp, sweat beading his hairline and making its way lazily down the skin of Zayn’s neck. It probably says something about the degree of his crush that instead of being disgusted, Tyler wants to get his mouth all over Zayn. 

“Alright?” Zayn asks, making a grabby hand for the joint. 

Tyler obliges, ignoring Shelley’s look. Literally if anyone else sat down, Tyler would share with them, too -- it’s what he _does_. That’s what he _does_ when he has weed. He shares.

Tyler wipes his hands on his swimming trunks. He hates how they get clammy and weird around Zayn. The whole anxiety-inducing infatuation thing is really new for Tyler. Usually he’s confident, but -- well, it’s Zayn. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Tyler says, with shrug that’s more steady than he feels. Then, “That voids out all your exercise. Smoking, I mean.” 

“I figured,” Zayn says, with a hint of a lazy smile. He hands the joint back to Tyler. “It’s worth it, though. Running and jumping is never worth it.”

Tyler coughs through his hit, laughing. “It’s not all bad.”

Zayn stares at him. 

“You don’t work out, do you?” he asks, face collapsing as if it’s the worst thing Tyler could do. 

“I like boxing and shit, MMA,” Tyler says, hiding his smile in his shoulder. “Running, not so much.”

“Well, good,” Zayn says, eyelids heavy already from the weed. He looks amused, lips quirked in a smile that’s not quite a smile. “Running’s shit.”

“Damn right,” Tyler says, accepting the joint back from Shelley. He has no idea when he passed it to her -- if he past it at all -- or if she just grabbed it while he was distracted by Zayn’s... everything. “Smoker’s lungs.”

“Too right,” Zayn agrees, eyes on Tyler while he takes his hit. The joint’s burned down to the last couple of tokes and Tyler grins at Zayn, deciding to seize the moment or whatever. 

“Wanna shotgun?” he asks, doing his best to look a little flirty. And, okay, shotgunning is a little too predictable and the worst excuse to kiss someone ever in the history of stoners, but it’s worth a shot, right? It’s the only thing he really has the bravado for.

Ha, ‘worth a shot’.

Surprise flashes over Zayn’s face before he laughs, tongue pressing the back of his teeth. 

“No,” he says, watching Tyler. 

It’s such a shock, Tyler almost drops the joint, cheeks stinging. “Alright,” he says, trying to smile easily, eyes darting away. His stomach kind of hurts from the embarrassment, heart thudding in his chest, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. 

It’s fine. Whatever. 

Zayn’s still laughing, like it’s a joke, like Tyler didn’t have to work himself up to asking at all. He nudges their shoulders together, jostling Tyler. Tyler takes the last hit and puts the joint out in the sand between them before he lifts his head and meets Zayn’s eyes. There’s a ridiculous softness on Zayn’s face that makes him hard to look at.

“Just, like, want you to stop being a pussy and kiss me properly,” Zayn says, smile going secretive and shy. He says it quietly, but Shelley explodes in laughter next to Tyler, loud and startling. Tyler blinks at Zayn, brain falling behind. 

“Oh,” Tyler says, eloquently. A feeling like molten lava drops down his spine, a flustered excitement that makes his fingers tingle. Zayn wants Tyler to _kiss him_. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Zayn asks, laughing. Tyler shrugs, stomach loosening up happily, pulsing pounding around his temples. 

“Well, I’m not going to do it _now_ ,” Tyler says, haughty. He doesn’t know if he pulls it off, he can hear how eager he sounds. Zayn stares at him for a moment longer before ducking his head and humming in acknowledgement, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

On his other side, Shelley digs her elbow into Tyler’s side, like a sharp ‘ _told you so_ ’. Tyler tackles her into the sand to distract them both, getting away from Zayn and the promise of _later_. 

 

 

Tyler’s hot. 

Temperature hot, that is -- flushed and a little sweaty -- thin shirt clinging to his chest and back. He’s sandwiched between two people. The chick in front of Tyler rolls her body against his, hands around his neck and tangled in his hair. He feels the gloss from her lips sticky on his mouth and wonders when that got there --

There’s a dude pressed against his back, hips rocking together on beat, hands big and warm on Tyler’s waist. There might be lips on his neck, but the press of bodies makes it hard to figure out where he’s being touched -- 

The dance floor is stifling. The beat reverberates through the soles of his sneakers hard enough to make his bones vibrate. The house lights flicker and sway and sweep over the crowd in neon green and red and bright blue, staying behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes. The track scratches and whines and skips as the DJ spins into a new track. Tyler barely manages to stay on beat as the song speeds up, sends his pulse careening.

He mentally backtracks, trying to figure out how he lost everyone between one drink and the next, but maybe they’re around here somewhere… Tyler gives it another minute before he wiggles out from between the two of them, regretfully losing his place. They close the gap without any fuss as Tyler spins, looking for --

“There you are!” Tyler shouts, grabbing at Niall’s arm. They were close to each other, three people apart, even though it felt so much further. Niall laughs at him, mouth wide and grinning, and pulls Tyler in by his arms before sliding his hands down to Tyler’s hips and forcing them to sway to the beat. 

Tyler lets him, happy buzzed and glad to have found him. The song changes again and Niall’s being pulled away, but Dylan’s at his side so Tyler leans into him instead. Dylan humors him and grinds against him for half a song before pressing his lips to Tyler’s ear, voice raised to be heard.

“Weren’t you looking for Zayn?” he reminds Tyler, hand flexing in the front of Tyler’s shirt, and _oh_.

Yes, that’s exactly what Tyler was doing. He was going to get Zayn a drink, get Zayn to… dance with him, maybe? Maybe get Zayn to follow him into the bathroom so Tyler could suck him off. Maybe just get Zayn to make out with him in a dark corner, actually. 

Tyler still doesn’t know what his game plan was, but he knows he had one. He nods aggressively, trying to remember where he left Zayn. 

“Have you seen him?” Tyler shouts into Dylan’s ear, tugging him in by his ridiculous shoulders. “Zayn?”

Dylan pulls away to shake his head, frowning and pouting dramatically. His cheeks are all ruddy and red from the heat and the shots they took up on in the VIP area. Oh -- maybe that’s where they left Zayn. 

Tyler makes a few complicated gestures at Dylan, trying to let him know that he’s going to find Zayn. The message is received, Dylan waving him off with a loose wrist, spinning around into -- someone’s arms, Harry’s maybe. 

Tyler remembers that they brought Harry. Or, Harry met them here. Either way, he’s here and dancing with Dylan. Okay.

The stairs to VIP are a long climb, legs noodly from dancing, but Tyler makes it, flashing his wristband at the bouncer to get in. The bar upstairs is way less crowded than the one off the dancefloor, so it doesn’t take long for Tyler to get shots -- four pineapple upside down cakes, because Zayn has a secret sweet tooth that Tyler loves to exploit. 

“I hope one of those is for me!” Louis asks, when Tyler wanders outside to the tiny second floor patio and finds their table. He’s talking at a normal volume. The music is dulled out here, bass thumping against the windows when the door slides shut, not making it outside. There are speakers, but it’s all treble, thin and reedy compared to the swell of music inside.

If Tyler’s remembering right, they’re _exactly_ where he left them -- and Danielle and Phoebe and Shelley, but they’re probably inside by now because they’re not killjoys -- 

What is the point of being at a club, but not dancing? _Especially_ when you know the DJ? Major props to Liam for putting up with asshole friends who don’t jam to his sets, tee-be-aych.

“It wasn’t,” Tyler admits, but slides one over to Louis anyway. He’s nice like that. 

“You look warm,” Zayn says, leaning in a little closer than he normally would. He smells like sticky sweet alcohol and the Tom Ford cologne he borrowed from Harry. The look on his face is very tipsy -- eyes half open, cheeks red and flushed, sharp smirk on his lips.

“It’s ‘hot’,” Tyler corrects, turning his head a bit. Their stubble scrapes together as Tyler’s cheek brushes Zayn’s jaw. Tyler grins. “I look hot.” 

“You always look hot,” Zayn says. The words are all wrapped up in a chuckle, they sound super fond. Tyler flushes, pleased. 

“Ditto,” Tyler says, dragging his gaze down Zayn’s body, deliberately checking him out. Tonight he’s just in a tight black shirt and tight jeans with chunky Doc Martens on, but it’s offset by his tattoos and newly dyed pink hair -- it’s incredibly sexy. 

“Are you quite finished?” Louis leaning across the table to frown at them both. Tyler presses his palm to Louis’ forehead and shoves him away.

“We’re just getting started,” Tyler says, with an over-exaggerated wink. Louis scowls and pretends to gag, so Tyler turns back to Zayn, pleased to find Zayn’s eyes already on him. “I brought you shots.” 

He pushes two of the upside down cakes in Zayn’s direction before grabbing the last one, and raising it in a toast. Glass clinks as they knock their shots together, thumping them back on the table when they’re empty. 

Tyler nudges Zayn’s second shot towards him with the back of his knuckles and Zayn shrugs, taking that too. 

“What are you doing up here?” Tyler asks, leaning in again. In his peripheral, he sees Louis roll his eyes, but Louis is being ignored for the time being, so Tyler doesn’t even make a comment.

“I’m standing here,” Zayn says, with a little smirk. “Talking to Louis.”

“We’re at a club,” Tyler says, wrinkling his nose. He turns his head to include Louis, so Louis knows he’s being chastised, too. “Clubs are for dancing, not talking.”

“I don’t dance,” Zayn says, sliding a cigarette between his lips.

He says that every time he comes out to the club with them, which is admittedly rare, but it’s a _lie_ \-- Tyler has totally seen him dance. Zayn just needs to be drunk enough to loosen up, and then he’s all spaghetti limbs, rolling his hips in determination.

Which is why Tyler brought shots. 

He probably should have brought more. 

“Don’t make me beg,” Tyler whines, pressing up against Zayn’s side. Zayn raises his eyebrows, but Tyler doesn’t bother moving away. 

The whole summer has been a practice in restraint. Not touching Zayn the way he really wants to, resisting the urge to grab his arm or touch his waist or fall against him when they’re drunk. No lingering touches, nothing suggestive. Tyler’s been _reserved_ , damn it. He’s over it. 

“I think he might like that, mate,” Louis says, with a saucy wink. “Depending on why you’re begging, of course.” His voice goes all high like he’s trying not to laugh, but it only takes a second before he breaks and collapses forward in giggles. 

“Hey, hey, Louis, shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t be mean, Tyler,” Zayn says, swatting at him until Tyler wiggles out of reach. When it’s safe, he snatches the cigarette from between Zayn’s fingers and puffs on it while Zayn aims a very cute scowl at him. 

“God, these are gross,” Tyler pouts, taking another drag. The look Zayn gives him is _completely_ unimpressed.

“Maybe don’t smoke ‘em then, twat,” Zayn says, trying to grab it back. Tyler takes another drag and blows the smoke in his face.

“This is mine, since you won’t dance with me.”

“You two are the worst,” Louis drawls, chin propped up on his hand, gaze bouncing between the two of them. “If this is what flirting looks like, I’m truly sorry for anyone you’ve ever pulled.”

“Hey, I pull just fucking fine,” Tyler says, a little insulted. Zayn takes advantage of his pause and grabs the cigarette, moving to Louis’ other side to smoke it. It’s fine, Tyler doesn’t actually want it. The taste of ashtray is actually gross as hell. “Wait, pull is like, hook up, right? Not some weird British-ism… saying, whatever.”

Louis barks out a laugh and accepts the cigarette when Zayn hands it over politely. All voluntary and shit, too. Tyler grabs the lighter off the table and throws it at Zayn’s head. It bounces off Zayn’s ear and drops back onto the table with a clatter.

“Yeah, it’s that,” Louis says, hands fluttering at Tyler like he’s being dismissed as a hopeless cause. 

“Alright, then _yeah_.”

“Can everyone shut the fuck up?” Zayn asks, rolling his eyes. Tyler wishes he had something else to throw.

“Maybe if you dance with me,” Tyler replies, with a wide grin, batting his eyelashes. Totally charming.

“Fine,” Zayn says, with a big put upon sigh, like Tyler’s _forcing_ him to do this terrible thing even though he looks fond as well. Tyler lets out a _whoop_ , fist punching into the air. “Don’t embarrass me.”

“No fucking promises, dude,” Tyler says, grabbing Zayn’s arm and pulling him through the door. They stop at the bar for two more shots each. Tyler can’t stop watching Zayn, the long column of his throat, the sweep of his tongue when he licks his lips. He’s smiling a little dazedly, but he has a stomach full of vodka and a deep infatuation -- both of which are _great_ excuses to stare, so whatever. 

Lacing his fingers with Zayn’s, Tyler tugs him downstairs, aiming for where he last saw the others. He presses through the crowd, getting them lost in the steady thrum of bodies. The look on Zayn’s face is carefully controlled _terror_ , so Tyler reels him in close, hand trailing down his side unconsciously, settling on his waist.

“We really don’t have to,” he shouts in Zayn’s ear, but his hips are already swaying to the beat without him making the decision to do so. The air is too warm again, pressing in on them. Tyler shifts closer to Zayn, savoring all the places he can feel them touching. 

“S’alright,” Zayn says, with a reassuring smile that’s not _super_ reassuring, but reassuring enough that Tyler doesn’t bother double checking. If he says he’s okay, then -- Tyler isn’t going to give up this chance. 

The chance to _dance_. 

It’s awkward at first, Zayn’s obviously self-conscious. The shots _obviously_ haven’t kicked in yet, but Tyler does his best, arms around the Zayn’s neck, pressing their chests and hips together, keeping them both on beat through sheer force of will. 

Everything slows down and gets heavy and starts to drags as the shots catch up with Tyler. The buzzing under his skin is amplified ten-fold, pulse leaping in time with the music. His heart trembles when Zayn slips his fingers under the hem of Tyler’s shirt and touches his hips, his stomach, the line of hair above the waistband of his pants. 

Tyler presses his forehead to Zayn’s shoulder and grinds forward as a new song comes on. The beat speeds up and pounds in Tyler’s head, up his spine. Tyler grabs at Zayn and makes them _move_ , shoves his thigh between Zayn’s legs and gets a little dirty, hand in Zayn’s hair, tugging. 

Both of Zayn’s hands are under his shirt now, nails biting into the curve of Tyler’s waist. Zayn smiles and goes with it, bodies swaying together, watching Tyler under his lashes. All the breath is trying to force its way out of Tyler’s chest. He’s panting. Half hard in his jeans. 

He doesn’t think twice, just picks his head up and drags Zayn in for a kiss, lips crashing together. It’s the exact opposite of graceful, the press of their mouths hard and demanding. Their teeth click when Tyler licks into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn bites Tyler’s lower lip hard and pulls, making Tyler’s hips stutter forward, seeking friction. 

Fuck, fuck. 

Tyler’s head is swimming, pulse racing. There’s a frantic feeling building at the base of his spine, and he can’t stop kissing Zayn, can’t stop clinging to him, holding on so tightly he’s worried about crushing Zayn.

“Shit,” Tyler says, between kisses, but it’s lost to the bassline. Not that it matters, not that Zayn needs to hear it, he probably felt it against his lips. Because they’re kissing. They’re _kissing_. It’s hot, like _sexy_ , and everything Tyler imagined a drunk makeout session with Zayn being.

Tyler’s head is swimming, making him dizzy. Really dizzy. 

They pull away as Tyler tries to catch his breath. It’s way too hot. Someone pushes him into Zayn from behind, making the presence of the other people around them the only thing Tyler can think about. And the crowd is suddenly way, way too much -- too much touching --

He’s way too drunk right now, he realizes, grabbing ahold of Zayn’s arm and tugging. He leads a bemused Zayn off the dancefloor, coming out of the crowd by the patio door. Thank _god_. When they get outside, Tyler takes deep breaths, head starting to clear.

“Sorry,” he says, gasping a little. His skin prickles from the wind, cooling his sweaty skin down quickly. It’s sharpening up his mind, making him less likely to puke all over their shoes. “Sorry, I was too hot.”

“Don’t throw up on me,” Zayn says, a little amused, but he runs both his hands over Tyler’s arms. It’s soothing. And making Tyler dizzy, because touching. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Tyler says, pressing his shoulder into the wall to steady himself. He looks at Zayn then, half in the shadow of the building, patio lights softly lighting up his face. That tipsy look is still hanging around, the self-satisfied smirk he gets when he’s had a few. Tyler’s come to really, really like that look.

They stand in silence for a few minutes. Tyler lets his pulse steady, cools down, gets his head to stop swimming. He’s definitely still drunk, but he’s good now. At least, he thinks he is. He grabs the front of Zayn’s shirt and tugs him in until there’s barely any distance between them. Tyler smells smoke and alcohol and cologne and smiles; his whole body lights up, remembering how they were kissing on the dance floor. 

“Hi,” he says, meeting Zayn’s eyes with a playful look. Zayn smiles at him, all white teeth and adoration.

“Hey.”

“So, that happened,” Tyler says, letting Zayn’s shirt go, but keeps him close. It’s sweaty, shirt sticking to Zayn’s chest as Tyler’s knuckles press into his sternum. He can feel the sharp rise-fall of Zayn’s ribcage, the steady pounding of his pulse, like Zayn’s heart is trying to leap into Tyler’s hand. 

That’s good. The whole heartbeat racing thing is good. Tyler likes that.

“It did.”

“Can that happen again?” Tyler asks, and Zayn laughs at him -- big and bright -- before tugging him in by the back of his neck, so quickly Tyler doesn’t have time to brace himself. They’re kissing again, rough and sweet, and Tyler presses his body against Zayn’s and lets his head spin until it’s too much to handle.

“Maybe that should happen after I’ve sobered up more,” Tyler admits, drawing away. His whole body is vibrating with want, but if he doesn’t concentrate on breathing, he _will_ throw up.

“Whenever you want,” Zayn says, seriously, and Tyler can’t resist kissing him just one more time. 

 

 

Tyler hates sunshine. He hates sunshine and he hates mornings. And he hates Dylan’s couch. 

There’s a crick in his neck from the way he fell asleep and he feels pretty grody, all things considered. There’s no evidence of a hangover, but the taste of alcohol lingers heavily in his mouth, which isn’t a great start to the day. 

He finds his backpack shoved in the corner of the room and grabs out a change of clothes along with his toothbrush. It feels good to be prepared. He takes a quick shower, in and out, all the important bits cleaned up. After he brushes his teeth, he feels almost human again. _Almost_.

When he gets out of the bathroom, it doesn’t seem like anyone else is up, but he’s also the only person downstairs. Getting super drunk at the club meant he fell asleep on the Uber ride home and got dumped on the piece of furniture nearest to the door, while everyone else went upstairs to the guests rooms and passed out in comfort. 

Tyler’s neck is _really_ killing him. 

Luckily there’s Excedrin and water in the kitchen. He gulps down two tall glasses before he wanders upstairs to look for Zayn. They have unfinished business to attend to. Even if they don’t end up making out again, or whatever, Tyler could deal with cuddling Zayn in a real bed and getting a few more hours of sleep. 

The first guest room door is already open, shoes keeping it from falling shut. Sprayberry and Khylin are passed out on the bed diagonally, legs tangled together. Tyler roots around in his pocket and pulls out his phone. The battery is _dangerously_ low, but there’s enough to take a picture.

Things are already looking up. 

He wanders down the hall. None of the other doors are open, so he has to peek in slowly and pray he doesn’t see anything he doesn’t want to see. The second room is Louis and Danielle, cuddled up under the covers. Tyler resists taking a picture, only because Louis will murder him in cold blood if it ever ended up anywhere. 

Tyler closes the door quietly and creeps away.

Third time’s the charm. The door creaks when he lets himself in, but it doesn’t matter, the bed is empty. Tyler recognizes Zayn’s boots at the foot of the bed, his silver phone case lying on one of the pillows. This is definitely where he crashed. 

Tyler shoves his hands through his hair nervously before deciding to sit and wait. It’ll be fine. It’s polite to say hello to someone he made out with the night before, right? He plops down at the foot of the bed and takes out his phone to play Candy Crush, distracting himself.

It takes for-fucking-ever because Zayn’s a diva and not only uses all the hot water, but takes ages in front of the mirror. By the time he’s out, Tyler beat a level and checked his Twitter and posted a shirtless selfie on Instagram. 

Of course it’s _Zayn_ , so he wanders out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else, still slightly damp from the shower, water droplets glistening across his shoulders in the morning light. 

Tyler’s freezes when he looks up from his phone. Sometimes it still knocks him off his ass how gorgeous Zayn is. He should be used to it by now, but he really fucking isn’t. Especially not like this, so early in the morning and vulnerable in sobriety. 

“Alright?” Zayn asks, eyeing Tyler warily, hand tightening on his towel. 

It’s weird how much more fucking nervous Tyler feels in the light of the day. Kissing Zayn is easy when he’s backed up by shot after shot, when it’s dark and they’re surrounded by other people, but when it’s just him, trying to think of something to say -- it’s a whole lot fucking harder. 

Tyler wipes his hands on his pants and shrugs, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. 

“I was gunna come crash with you, if you were still asleep,” he says, gesturing to the head of the bed loosely. “I’m a big spoon, y’know. Figured you might want to cuddle.”

Zayn laughs at him then, tipping his head back to reveal the smooth expanse of his neck, the bump of his adam’s apple, the dark ink of the roses tattooed on his neck. Something low in Tyler’s gut twists tightly, making a shiver crawl up his spine. He wants to set his teeth to Zayn’s skin and bite down. 

“What if I don’t wanna be little spoon?” he asks, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It must be awkward, standing there in nothing but a towel. It’s his own fault for not getting dressed in the bathroom, but Tyler sympathizes, at least. 

“It’s fine, I’m a switch spoon,” Tyler says, leaning back on his hands with a wink. That makes Zayn laugh again, and Tyler’s sure he isn’t imagining the way his cheeks go red. 

“Good to know,” Zayn says, low and cheeky. They’re definitely not talking about cuddling preferences anymore. 

“Want me to --” Tyler jerks his head towards the door and sweeps his gaze over Zayn’s towel. _Want me to leave?_ He doesn’t ask outright. He wants Zayn to know how reluctant he is to go. If he had his way, Zayn would just drop the towel and come sit on his lap. 

“I do need to get dressed,” Zayn says, arching an eyebrow at Tyler. Tyler shrugs. 

“Or, you could just come here,” Tyler says, steadily. He’s nervous, sure -- hopefully Zayn can’t tell how fucking hard his heart is pounding, like it’s trying to leap out of his chest -- but Tyler’s tired of waiting, and Zayn looks _edible._

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking at Tyler. There’s a funny combination of emotions on Zayn’s face -- exasperated, cocky, with an underlying nervousness that Tyler can barely detect. He can probably only tell because he’s seen Zayn in various states of fucked up and completely relaxed -- it’s not hard to see the tension in his movements, shoulders pulled back rigidly. 

“Only if you want,” Tyler amends, sitting up again, watching. Zayn stares him for another minute, shifting his weight before shrugging and making his way over to Tyler, settling in the space between Tyler’s legs. 

Tyler looks up at him, runs his hands up Zayn’s sides. The smile on Zayn’s face seems nervous, but Tyler can deal with that. Mostly happy but terrified is basically his permanent state of being around Zayn anyway. 

Something about Zayn makes him really fucking nervous, but it’s not like that’s _new_. That’s been true for months. Tyler wonders if he’ll ever get used to it.

“What now?” Zayn asks, clearing his throat, waiting for directions. It’s cute, sure, but Tyler doesn’t know where they’re going with this either, just knows where he _wants_ it to go -- preferably in a horizontal direction, leading to them touching each other’s dicks. 

“You could kiss me again,” Tyler suggests, tilting his head up, letting his eyes slip shut so he doesn’t have to see the indecision on Zayn’s face. 

It’s not that he doesn’t think Zayn will kiss him again, he just doesn’t want to be disappointed if he’s wrong about this -- like, what if Zayn only wants to kiss them when they’re fucked up -- which isn’t anything _new_ , it’s a thing that some guys do when they can’t deal with being into other dudes, but Zayn doesn’t seem like the type, all things considered, and -- oh. 

There are lips on Tyler’s, a thousand times more deliberate than the night before. A gentle press of their lips over and over, smooth and a little wet. 

Arousal pools sharply at the bottom of Tyler’s spine, taking him from zero to fucking needy in less than a heartbeat. He gasps into Zayn’s mouth when he feels Zayn’s thumb put pressure on his jaw, mouth falling open so Zayn can lick inside. 

It feels like his stomach drops out when he feels both of Zayn’s hands slide into his hair and hears the towel land with a thud on the floor. Which means Zayn is naked, very naked. 

Tyler’s eyes flutter open when he realizes that, pulling back so he can look at Zayn -- really look at him -- damp, red flush spreading down his chest almost too subtle to see. Tyler skips everything he’s seen before, gaze sliding down to Zayn’s hips and his cock fattening up against his thigh, thick and rosy at the head. Tyler’s mouth waters.

“Shut up,” Zayn says, even though Tyler didn’t make a comment yet. He leans in close, cutting off Tyler’s view of his body, and kisses Tyler again, hands against his shoulders until Tyler starts scooting back. 

Tyler pulls away to get fully situated on the the bed, stripping off his shirt as he goes, tossing it behind Zayn. Zayn’s smirking at him, eyes sweeping over his body, and Tyler preens under the attention. Yeah, Zayn’s seen him shirtless plenty of times, but not in the context of _sex_. 

The sex they’re gunna have really soon.

There are lips on his neck, teeth digging into the skin next to his adam’s apple, stinging until Zayn licks over the bite like an apology. Tyler’s boneless against the bed, content to be pinned under Zayn, stomach leaping when Zayn touches his chest, fingers trailing down his pecs; his mouth falls open when Zayn drags his nail against his nipple, and Zayn smirks, doing it again and again until Tyler is squirming and dragging him in for another kiss. 

When they break apart to catch their breath, Zayn ducks again, kissing across Tyler’s collar, down middle of his chest. Tyler’s barely breathing and Zayn moves lower and lower, leaving wet presses of his mouth behind.

There’s a knot of anticipation deep in Tyler’s gut. He actually jumps when Zayn’s fingers curl into his waistband, backs of his knuckles brushing Tyler’s hips and -- Zayn watches his face when he pulls Tyler’s shorts down. 

Tyler’s dick bobs free, and now it’s Zayn’s turn to look, eyes sweeping his whole body like he wants to see all of Tyler. Tyler distracts himself by kicking his shorts away, all too aware of the fact that they’re both fully naked. 

“You’re so fucking fit,” Zayn says, with a little exhale like he’s bracing himself, and laughter hiccups from Tyler’s chest. Right. 

“You too, dude,” Tyler says, hand through Zayn’s hot pink hair, nails dragging along the back of his skull. Zayn’s eyes flutter a bit before he gets a cute look of determination on his face. 

“I’m gunna blow you now,” he says, voice thick and low, and Tyler definitely isn’t going to argue with him. 

“Sure,” he says, nodding enthusiastically, putting pressure on the back of Zayn’s head to guide him down. Zayn gives him a long suffering look, but goes obediently, curling one big hand over Tyler’s hip and pinning him to the bed. 

He uses the other hand to guide Tyler’s dick into his mouth. Zayn’s looking up at Tyler from under his lashes like he wants to see Tyler’s reaction when the head of his cock hits the back of Zayn’s throat. 

Tyler groans, thighs twitching with the urge to thrust up, but he keeps still, lets Zayn control the pace. It’s quick and sloppy and so fucking good. Zayn keeps his mouth tight around Tyler’s dick, uses his hand on what he can’t fit in his mouth, and doesn’t come up for air until Tyler’s digging his heels into the mattress and swearing loudly. 

“Wanna come?” Zayn asks, when he pulls off with a pop, lips red and swollen. There’s a rosy blush on his cheeks that matches his hair, and it takes a moment for Tyler to be able to answer, tongue unsticking from the roof of his mouth. 

“Yeah, if you wanna --” Tyler gestures at his dick, then -- “I’ve got stuff though, if you want to fuck me.”

Zayn pauses mid-stroke, hand on Tyler’s dick. Tyler doesn’t nudge his hips up to get Zayn to continue, but it’s a close call. 

“Really?” Zayn asks, voice rough and fucked out, and Tyler _did that_ \-- well, Tyler’s _dick_ did that, but semantics, really. It’s a part of Tyler, anyway. “You, uh, wanna?”

“Switch spoon, remember?” Tyler says, cheekily. He pushes at Zayn so he’ll move out of the way. He does, but he seems dazed. Tyler lets him be, leaning over the side of the bed to drag his backpack closer.

He feels Zayn’s hands on his back as he digs through the pockets looking for his lube. A shiver jolts up runs over Tyler’s back as Zayn runs his fingers down Tyler’s spine, stopping on the curve of his ass, thumb pressing into his back dimples. 

He finds the lube and condoms, holding them up triumphantly.

“All set?” Zayn asks. He doesn’t wait for a response, just hauls Tyler back onto the bed by his hips. Tyler expects to be flipped, but Zayn’s pressing kisses down his back, hands slotted against Tyler’s rib cage, holding him in place. 

“Damp hair means you showered, right?” Zayn asks, breath warm over Tyler’s back. He realizes he’s sweating, skin too warm, feeling tight and alive with nerves. Zayn digs his teeth into Tyler’s shoulder, making Tyler groan and arch. 

“Y-yeah?” Tyler says, brain blanking out when Zayn’s lips hit his lower back, and oh -- _oh_. “Oh _shit_.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, sounding smug. Tyler doesn’t have time to think about it, not really. Zayn’s thumbs dig in, open him up, and then Zayn’s tongue follows, a shock of wet warmth that feels so good, Tyler’s first instinct is to move his hips _away_. 

Zayn keeps an hand on him though and doesn’t let up, tongue wet and insistent. Tyler can feel the soft rub of his beard on the sensitive skin of Tyler’s ass. For some reason he’s focused on how large Zayn’s hands feel, wrapped around his hips and using his thumbs to keep Tyler open. 

Just fucking thinking about it is too much, gut going tight with tension and the burning fucking desire to come. 

Zayn does something with his tongue that makes Tyler lurch forward again before he grinds back against the sensation. He can’t stop groaning, head falling forward to press into the mattress, going as boneless as he can while his thighs shake. 

Zayn makes a pleased noise and keeps rimming him for what feels like _forever_. Tyler’s so keyed up, he doesn’t notice Zayn’s lubed up his fingers until they’re pressing at Tyler’s rim and Tyler’s opening up for Zayn like it’s fucking instinctual. 

Tyler groans when Zayn adds a second finger, rolling his hips back as eagerly as he can, feeling like he’s about to fly apart. By the time Zayn gets a third finger in him, Tyler’s so far gone, he’s close to begging.

He finds the energy to twist around when Zayn pulls away to roll the condom on. Zayn looks up from his dick in surprise, watching Tyler. 

“I wanna ride you,” Tyler says, casually, pressing the tips of his fingers to Zayn’s shoulder so he’ll get the hint and move back. His spine feels tight from how badly he wants to come, and he can’t think of anything better than coming while riding Zayn’s dick.

Zayn goes easily, still wide-eyed and questioning. It’s cute, the way he’s all sex flushed and confused, hair a wreck, sweaty around the temples. Tyler wants to lick him there, just to taste him, because he’s a big weirdo and would definitely lick Zayn anywhere he wanted Tyler to lick him. 

“Uh, okay,” Zayn says, squinting up at Tyler while Tyler grins down at him. Zayn’s got the bottle of lube out already, squirting some onto his dick. Tyler waits as patiently as he can, but it’s only about two seconds before he bats Zayn’s hands out of the way and straddles his narrow hips, sinking down on Zayn’s cock. 

He means to go slow, but he’s impatient, desire to come still heavy in the pit of his stomach. His whole body is thrumming and aching with need. Tyler screws his eyes shut as their hips meet, nails digging into Zayn’s chest as he fully sits on Zayn’s lap, trying to adjust his hips into a comfortable position.

The room feel stifling and hot, even sitting up. It’s hard to catch his breath. 

“Alright?” Zayn asks, fingers digging into Tyler’s hips. When Tyler opens his eyes and looks, Zayn’s frowning. It takes him a minute to realize he’s not moving, breathing hard. 

“Yeah, ‘m good,” Tyler says, it’s not a lie. He’s just overwhelmed, feels his runaway pulse in every part of his body, but especially where they’re connected. The air is thick with tension and Tyler didn’t even think they were going to _get_ to this point, yet here he is -- “I’m just overwhelmed.”

“By my prick?” Zayn asks, with a sly little smirk that has Tyler laughing and smacking his chest. 

It takes another quick moment to brace himself, but then Tyler plants his knees and starts moving his hips, watching as Zayn’s eyelids flutter. 

“Mm, yeah, that,” Tyler says, a little nonsensically, lifting himself up and dropping himself back down, controlling the speed with hips, pinning Zayn down, keeping the movements small and tight so Zayn can’t thrust up into him. 

Zayn’s hands palm Tyler’s hips, holding on while Tyler rides him, thigh muscles bunching and straining as he goes faster. 

“Holy shit,” Zayn says, lips biting down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from something -- _coming_ hopefully, because Tyler’s already close, still wound up from Zayn’s mouth. 

“Tell me when you’re gunna come,” Tyler demands. 

“Soon, if you keep doing that,” Zayn says, looking at Tyler with something close to awe on his face, and Tyler smirks at him the best he can as Zayn’s dick hits his prostate at the perfect angle. Tyler grinds back at that angle a couple more times before it’s too much, before his thighs are shaking.

He falls forward and kisses Zayn, working his hips faster, panting into Zayn’s mouth when they part. “C’mon, c’mon,” Tyler says, impatient and so fucking close to coming he can barely stand it. 

Zayn must know, because his hot palm wraps around Tyler’s dick and tugs, and Tyler comes all over Zayn’s stomach and chest, dick pulsing. Zayn lets go almost immediately and rolls Tyler onto his back, thrusting into Tyler smoothly. 

Tyler goes pliant from his orgasm, unable to keep the moans from spilling out of him as Zayn finds the perfect angle and dicks into him over and over. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Tyler says, wrung out and sweaty and over-sensitive as hell, nails scratching down Zayn’s back. Zayn grabs his wrists and pins them to the bed, working his hips so hard Tyler can feel the bony ridges of his pelvis on every thrust. 

It feels like forever before he comes, biting off a groan that sounds like Tyler’s name. 

He drops down onto Tyler like he can’t keep himself up, and they roll sideways, a mess of come and sweat, kissing roughly. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Tyler says, loudly, once they’ve pulled away from each other. Zayn’s nose is wrinkling in amusement, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They look at each other and burst out laughing, pressing their foreheads together hard. 

“Fuck, I just showered,” Zayn complains, rolling away from Tyler onto his back. 

“Same,” Tyler says, trying to catch his breath. He tilts his head to stare at Zayn and finds Zayn watching him, eyes bright and cheeks red. 

“Why haven’t we been doing that this whole time?” Zayn asks. The rise and fall of his chest is sharp, skin still wet from Tyler’s come. It’s really great and really gross at the same time. Tyler’s too tired to get up and get him a towel, though. 

“You’re leaving,” Tyler pouts, trying to keep his voice light. They had really great sex, he’s not trying to ruin that with how miserable he truly feels about the temporary nature of any situation with Zayn. 

“Worth it, though?” Zayn asks, arching an eyebrow at him. He’s smirking at Tyler. 

“Well, _duh_ ,” Tyler says, huffing out a laugh, trying not to feel too exposed under the intensity of Zayn’s gaze. Any stolen moment is worth it for Zayn, but Tyler’s not going to say that yet. 

Zayn’s eyes go soft, and he scoots closer to drag his hand through Tyler’s wild hair. He looks amused and stupidly fond, and it Tyler’s chest feels warm. 

“Is now a good time to tell you I’m staying in LA?” Zayn asks, all casually. The words hit Tyler like a kick in the chest, and he’s so surprised he sits upright. 

“ _What_?” he demands, heart leaping hopefully. 

“I’ve been here looking for a job, you know that, right?” Zayn asks, laughing. Tyler is very aware that he’s being laughed _at_ right now. 

“I didn’t,” Tyler admits. The ball dread in his chest is cautiously loosening up. Maybe he could -- maybe they could _have this_. 

“I got one. I’m sticking around for a bit.”

“A bit?” Tyler asks. He feels a little dizzy.

“At least a year,” Zayn hums, nonchalant. 

Tyler lets out a _whoop_ and leaps at him. Their bodies collide -- it’s still gross and sticky and Tyler doesn’t even _give_ a shit. They’re both laughing as they roll over, off the edge bed, landing in a tangle of bony limbs on the floor. 

Somehow, they manage to right themselves. Tyler lies across Zayn and pins him to the carpet and kisses him roughly, full of promise and potential and everything that he’s been wanting for weeks and weeks and weeks. 

If this is how summer ends -- like this, with Zayn smiling against his mouth and holding onto him just as tightly as he’s holding onto Zayn -- then he’s fucking _ready_ for it.

**Author's Note:**

> [fic tag](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/we're-so-late-nights)
> 
> Comments make me stronger *nervous nail biting*


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